


Stay Right There

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, For Science!, Getting Together, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making the first move takes exactly 20 minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Right There

Sherlock springs from his chair the moment John enters the lounge from the kitchen. “Stop,” he says, hand out like a policeman stopping traffic. “Stay right there.” John does—immediately. He’s learnt well enough that when Sherlock says to stay back, he needs to do it. Much less chance of his new boots being ruined by toxic chemicals that way.

“Sherlock, if you’ve done something to the floors again, Mrs Hudson will—”

“Sh!” Sherlock snaps. “Don’t speak.” Sherlock crosses the room, placing both hands on John’s shoulders, guiding him backwards to a specific spot near the sofa. “I want you to stand here.”

John does not see any immediate threat to either the floor or his boots. “Why?” he asks, brows rising, exasperated now.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, simply slides the coffee table off to the side before moving to stand directly in front of the fireplace.

“What are you doing?”

“No _talking_ ,” is Sherlock’s only reply.

With his hands on his hips, John sighs, head falling back as he looks to the ceiling.

“No,” Sherlock barks, and John’s focus instantly goes back to his mad flatmate. “Don’t look up there.”   Sherlock points to his own face. “Look here.”

He should just leave—grab his paperback from the table next to his chair and go up to his room until Sherlock explains what the hell he’s doing. Unfortunately, his curiosity is getting the better of him. He weighs it against the utter ridiculousness of keeping with whatever game or experiment Sherlock’s got on. His curiosity wins. _Damn it_. He meets Sherlock’s eyes.

A minute passes. Two. Sherlock takes a step closer.

John cocks his head, eyes never wavering from Sherlock’s, who is staring right back. Sherlock says nothing, just holds out a hand in a silent signal to stay. And then the waiting begins again. Because it is the loudest thing in the room, John counts the seconds ticking off the clock. Two more minutes pass. Sherlock takes a step closer. John really wishes he knew the point of all this. But, even though he’s begun feeling twitchy, restless, he stays put.

Sherlock had started directly in front of the fireplace, a room’s distance from John, but he’s taken two steps closer, now standing between their chairs. John is still exactly where Sherlock placed him in front of the sofa. John counts the seconds, unsurprised when Sherlock steps forward after two more minutes pass.

Another two minutes. Another step forward.

John’s left calf itches. He leans down to scratch it, but Sherlock hums in warning, just loud enough that John looks his way as he gives one sharp shake of his head. John, feeling a little cowed, straightens. He clears his throat as he lifts his chin.

Two minutes. Step.

One hundred seconds into this round, and John feels the oddest sort of thrill down his spine as the seconds grow nearer to the two minute mark. He honestly doesn’t know why, but he feels like he is _living_ for the exact second when Sherlock will lift his foot from the carpet and _move_. When it happens, John fights a smile, keeps his face as stoic as he knows how, holds fast to Sherlock’s gaze. John takes a breath for something to do, never stops counting the seconds. Never stops waiting.

Sherlock steps closer. He is near enough now that John is finding it challenging to keep his face blank. It’s all so bloody _weird_. They aren’t close enough to touch, even if John were to lean out and reach. But from this distance, John can see the little movements of Sherlock’s eyes as they rake over his face, the red mark on his jaw where he cut himself shaving yesterday. John’s throat feels dry, so he swallows.

Sherlock takes a step.

Now, John can catch the faintest trace of Sherlock’s cologne, spicy and warm and familiar. John lets his eyes fall to the base of Sherlock’s throat, where he knows Sherlock drops it. He catches himself as he mentally chases the line of Sherlock’s neck up to his pulse point, shakes his head a little as he meets Sherlock’s eyes again. Sherlock’s mouth is set and firm, but there is something like a smile playing in the lines around his eyes. He’d been caught. John feels the heat of the blush blooming high on his cheeks. John takes another breath, holds steady.

Sherlock takes another step, and all is still and quiet again. If he were to reach out, his fingertips would fall just shy of contact. There is the whisper of fabric as Sherlock puts his hands into his trouser pockets. Then, Sherlock takes a breath, letting his chest jut out as he stretches his spine a bit. John watches the buttons pull on Sherlock’s shirt—not enough to expose any skin, just enough that John notices. Just last week, they’d caught up with an art thief while Sherlock was wearing that shirt. Sherlock had folded himself into the ductwork of a warehouse, had chased the guy over rooftops, had broken out martial arts skills that were very near to gymnastics, but that shirt had stayed perfectly in place—not one tear, not one stain, not once restricting even the wildest of movements. Perhaps Armani sews shirts with magic instead of thread. John fights the urge to laugh at the thought, returns his focus back to Sherlock’s face just in time for Sherlock to step forward again.

And this time, John can feel it. Sherlock is close enough that the space between them warms. John wants to fit his fingers between his shirt collar and neck, to loosen the fabric, but he doesn’t. He keeps his hands steady at his sides. It is actual work now to meet Sherlock’s eyes—the proximity makes it easier for him to focus on the small movements of his throat, the dip of his collarbone where it is showing, the slight shadow of stubble just starting at his jaw. Sherlock exhales, and John feels it stir the fringe on his forehead. He lifts his face to it, and Sherlock’s next breath falls against the skin of his cheeks.

John inhales, feels the return of the flush that had started earlier, feels it deepen. He’s absolutely uncertain of what to do with himself, of what the point of all this could possibly be. Standing still is growing more difficult by the second, each one ticking by a little slower than the one before. He itches with the want to flee. He itches with the want to lean forward. He takes a breath and holds it, eyes fast on Sherlock’s, and when he releases it, it falls against the vee made from the open button at his neck, stirring the fabric there a bit. John watches the slight change in Sherlock’s face, eyes going just that much darker, the muscles in his neck pulling taught, the small hitch at the back of his jaw.

The seconds tick by.

The next step Sherlock takes is smaller. They are toe-to-toe, and the fabric of John’s shirt is, in places, brushing the fabric of Sherlock’s. John twitches, and his arm brushes against Sherlock’s sleeve cuff, rolled just once. John straightens at once, pulling his arm back just a little. Sherlock’s raised his head, and John’s face is overheating in the warmth of Sherlock’s scent, neck only inches from John’s mouth. John wonders if it would be smooth underneath his lips.

Ninety seconds.

If Sherlock takes another step, he will be standing on top of John. The seconds slow. John really wonders what happens next. He is nearly desperate to find out.

Two minutes.

It’s not a step, but Sherlock leans in, breath on John’s ear. John’s entire body is vibrating. He doesn’t know what he’s meant to do. He clears his throat and cranes his neck upward to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock tilts his down, breathing steady as he nearly bloody nuzzles the side of John’s face. His nose is almost-but-not-quite against John’s cheek before moving down to his jaw, to the juncture of his shoulder and his neck. John’s knees go weak. It takes every ounce of strength he has to stay where he’d been put. His trousers are feeling as tight as his collar, and now the itch to flee is a distant memory.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock’s lips are at his ear once more, all hot breath and damp air. “Two minutes.” Sherlock’s voice is a low, quiet rumble that lands somewhere deep in the pit of John’s stomach. “Now it’s your turn to move.”

There is no distance to cross. There is no space at all.

John turns his head and puts his mouth against Sherlock’s.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Fiona_Fawkes for her awesome beta-ing skills! 
> 
> Also--thank you for allowing me to write tropey fluff that so many others have done so much better than I. This was great fun to write, and I do hope you enjoy reading it :-)
> 
> I cherish your kudos and comments like breathing!!!
> 
> (And, now I'm going to go continue working on the latest chapter of Baker's Yeast. It is on its way. Promise.)


End file.
